Snare
by littleblackdog
Summary: AU. Hawke is not an adventurer, but rather Kirkwall's best assassin, working largely for House Tethras.  Fenris is a potential client with an unusual request.  Fenris/m!Hawke, slash, some violence.  Part 1 of the "Snare" series.
1. Chapter 1

_Written for the k!meme, this is the first part of a (so far) 8 part series. Expect a day or two of ficspam from me, as I import some things from the meme._

_This fill contains M/M, m!Hawke/Fenris, as well as a bit of violence.  
><em>

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><p>Hawke sighed, running his fingers through his mousy brown hair. It would take at least a fortnight to get all the dye washed out, or even longer if something came up and he had to go darker again. Next time, screw professionalism, a hood would be good enough.<p>

"Oh stop sulking, you big baby." Varric was giving him a mildly annoyed glance over a pile of paperwork— some his business, and some other work— and Hawke sank lower in his chair in response.

"This is not my best look," he grumbled, mostly under his breath, and Varric threw a balled up piece of parchment at his head. Hawke caught it easily, but refrained from drilling it back like he wanted to. "What? I look like a bloody turnip farmer, and you know it."

Rolling his eyes, Varric turned back to his papers, tapping the feathered end of his quill against his chin. "Are you just fishing for compliments now, or are you really that much of a girl?"

"Both. Entirely both." Fiddling with the crumpled paper, Hawke sighed again, very dramatically. "Tell me about these new jobs."

"Are you sure? Maker forbid you have to go out in public with hair like that."

Hawke called up a frigidly flat glare. On more than one occasion, it had been the last expression an unfortunate individual ever saw; Varric simply looked amused. "All right Hawke, keep the spooky scowls for the paying customers. And speaking of, I might need you to spend a few days lurking around— I've got a couple persistent would-be clients who don't seem willing to take _fuck off_for an answer."

Abandoning his ill humour, Hawke began flicking the ball of paper up into the air and catching it again. "Oh, you know how I love playing scarecrow. Who's been in?"

There was a bit of shuffling, but after a moment Varric lifted The List, scratched in his ridiculous if clever cipher. It probably looked like a recipe for Nevarran stew. "Let's see here. Mostly the usual: a couple of potential widows and widowers, a Coterie mouthpiece… hmm. Magistrate, magistrate, raider captain, templar, templar, templar, magister, templar."

"Did you say magister?" Hauling himself up, Hawke leaned one elbow on the table, more than a little intrigued. "Client or mark?"

"I thought that might cheer you up. Mark, but it's a shitty job, so don't get too excited. If the elf who wants him dead has more than two silvers to rub together, I'll eat my boots, but I thought I'd mention it anyway, just in case you wanted to twist the knife a little deeper into my heart and do another charity gig."

"Hey, watch your mouth," Hawke said, his tone dripping with mock-affront. "That's a filthy word. You know reputation's worth more than gold in the long run, and a _magister_…"

Tossing The List back onto the pile, Varric groaned and took a long drink of his pint. "Andraste's dimpled ass, you've got that glint in your eye. That blighted glint is going to get us both killed one of these days."

* * *

><p>Hawke sat at his usual table, his back to the wall and a clear view of both doors and the stairs, while Varric was busy holding court in the middle of the tavern, running his mouth and trouncing some poor sods at diamondback. Two of the more persistent individuals Varric had mentioned had already been in, and already been accosted by a coldly displeased voice in the darkness when they finally stormed outside. One of them may have pissed himself, but he'd scampered off so fast that Hawke couldn't be sure— unfortunate, since that usually meant Varric would owe him a pint.<p>

It had been hours of "lurking around," and he was getting hungry, but actually eating the standard food at the Hanged Man wasn't the best decision when trying to blend in, or keep one's stomach in one piece. He could have gotten something special— Corff and all the regulars knew he was frequently in the employ of House Tethras— but that wouldn't have been subtle either.

He was about to call it a night when the main door swung open slowly, and a very… _striking_ elf slunk inside.

Varric didn't look up from his game, but Hawke noticed his posture stiffen just a hairsbreadth. This was indeed their client, then, and hardly as anonymous as an escaped slave with a serious magister problem might want to be. Bold as brass, with that shock of white hair and glimmering tattoos marking his chin, his throat, over his slender, muscled arms… Hawke swallowed thickly, resisting the urge to slap himself. There were a number of gorgeous elves at the Blooming Rose, and more than one of them already knew how to play him like a lute— he had absolutely no excuse for getting all moonstruck here.

This elf was well armed, with a blade strapped to his back nearly as long as he was tall, but he moved with impressive grace. On a professional level, Hawke could certainly admire a well trained warrior.

Yes, purely on a professional level.

After a few moments of letting the elf prowl around the bar, Varric bowed out of his game with a charming smile, gathering up enough winnings to make his table grumble, but not enough that they wouldn't be back the next night. Then, just as smoothly, he caught the elf's dour attention and jerked his head towards the stairs, not waiting to see if he'd be followed before he started up to his suite. Hawke waited, however, nursing a mug of water as he watched the elf favour the room at large with a long, suspicious glance before taking the stairs two at a time.

After counting silently to thirty, Hawke stood, brushing his hair out of his eyes (it had cost him three sovereigns, but one Formari potion later, and he was blessedly back to natural blond) and flashing Norah a cheeky smile. Nothing said _hey, who's that suspicious bloke in the corner_ more than sneaking around like a villain. Perhaps he'd mention that to the elf.

Bypassing the stairs, Hawke meandered outside into the crisp night air, enjoying the quiet and a moment to clear his head. There was a very well hidden entrance around the back of the tavern, one that required some tricky climbing, and Hawke made his way towards it, slipping carefully through the shadows. This entrance opened into a tiny crawlspace attached to Varric's suite, barely large enough to fit a grown man, and Hawke grinned as he silently wriggled inside. He could hear Varric bullshitting, giving the elf a bit of a run-around about the particulars of the job, but it wasn't anything too serious.

"—why you're looking for the kind of services we offer. It's a little redundant, and if I may serah, a little… irregular."

"You're concerned I'm a trap." The extremely attractive elf had a deep, gorgeous purr of a voice, and how was that even remotely fair? "All I can offer are my assurances that this is a legitimate request. What else would you have of me?"

Hawke's mind helpfully supplied several possible responses to the question, and nearly all of them required a thorough investigation of just how far those tattoos travelled under that tight leather armour. Shaking his head slightly, Hawke squirmed out into the main room, keeping himself secreted behind the bookcase that concealed the crawlspace.

"Generally," Varric was saying, and Hawke could hear the sardonic lilt that always accompanied a particularly sceptical raise of the dwarf's brow. "I'd just say gold, but given the unique circumstances you're bringing to the table, I think a proper meeting of minds may be in order."

They'd set up the sconces in the room with this particular bit of drama in mind, and Hawke knew he'd materialize like a shade when he stepped into view. He'd tugged his hood up the moment he was outside the tavern, and he stared at the startled, suddenly battle-ready elf through the shadow cast by the dark cloth.

"Hawke," Varric drawled, and both of them ignored the flare of blue that lit the elf's skin like a magical lantern. The tattoos weren't just sexy, it seemed, but also reactionary, and the number of unknown elements in the situation was steadily increasing. "This is Fenris. He has more than a passing interest in calling on one of your particular skill sets."

_One of your particular skill sets_— Maker, Hawke was going to smack him for that one later. Of course the damned dwarf would have guessed Hawke might be a tad… smitten. There were some days when working for your dearest friend (the smart-assed little blighter) was absolute torment.

Keeping his expression incredibly bland, Hawke spared a glance down towards the elf's tightly curled fists, then back up to meet a pair of fiery green eyes. "Fenris," he said quietly, as if weighing the name. "Are you a trap?"

The elf stared back at him, utterly unflinching, and Hawke filed that intense look away for further consideration. He didn't sleep with clients, and very rarely with marks, but that didn't mean he couldn't think about it— alone later on, probably with a bottle of wine.

"No," Fenris replied flatly, and the blaze of his markings faded to a dim glow. "I am not."

"Good." He saw Varric roll his eyes, but Fenris missed it, still completely intent on watching Hawke warily. "Then tell me what you need."

"There is a magister, _Danarius_." Hawke had met a lot of very angry, very bitter people over the years, but he had never before heard a name said with such vehement hatred. It chilled him, just a little. "He has come to Kirkwall seeking to reclaim lost property— namely myself. He has been hunting me for more than three years."

When Fenris paused, Hawke tilted his head back, enough to let his eyes show a bit clearer under his hood. This sounded particularly personal, even more so than cheating spouses or business deals gone wrong. "You want this magister dead, I take it?"

"Very much so. Danarius does not wish to simply recapture a slave, but to recover an investment. These markings—" It would have been rude _not_to look, what with Fenris motioning to the sinuous lines curling around his biceps. "Are lyrium that Danarius had burned into my flesh. From what I've learned from the hunters he's sent after me, he has plans to recover the lyrium, which would entail stripping the flesh from my bones."

"What a waste of a perfectly handsome elf." Somehow, Hawke had lost his mind; it probably had something to do with letting his eyes trail over tanned, tattooed skin. Regardless of the relative insanity of flirting with a client right after he'd outlined the gruesome end his former master had planned for him, Fenris still chuckled and maybe even flushed a little.

Oh Maker, this was going to end poorly.

From his seat at the head of the table, Varric cleared his throat pointedly. Fun was fun, but in the end, this was business. "Which would be all well and good, serah," Varric said slowly. "If you didn't want to kill this Danarius _yourself._"

That was unexpected. Shifting his gaze quickly between Fenris and Varric— one determined and smouldering, the other swiftly approaching annoyed— Hawke leaned back against the bookcase and folded his hands together over his stomach. "Fenris, you are aware of what I do, are you not?"

"You're an assassin." No attempt at euphemism, not even a concession to whisper; Hawke winced slightly at the sheer lack of respect for the cloak and dagger aspect, but Fenris wasn't finished. "I assume this means you are skilled enough to infiltrate Danarius' current safehouse without detection, and subdue him before he has a chance to flee. If the choice is kill him or let him escape, then by all means, but otherwise I want to see the life leave his eyes. I will destroy him with the very powers he inflicted upon me."

Varric was right: this was irregular. A job like this one was probably better suited to a bard, and ordinarily Hawke would tell a client just that, maybe even give directions to some appropriate contacts. This job, though…

"All right," he said, before he could change his mind, and ignored Varric's incredulous look. "You've peaked my interest. Sit, and we'll discuss details."

* * *

><p>His father, Bethany, shy little Merrill, and that scruffy-yet-attractive Anders fellow who lived in the Undercity notwithstanding, Hawke may have discovered a new mantra for his life— to the Void with all bloody, thrice-damned mages. Magisters in particular, but he was aggravated enough to paint with a wide brush, at least for the moment. Varric might have a fit, but Hawke was now more than willing to kill this Danarius bastard for free.<p>

Shades, shades, and more bleeding shades, popping up like a bad rash in every room of this filthy estate, and Hawke was fed up. It didn't help that fell creatures stunk like rotten eggs, or that their residue stuck to his daggers like mud on a mabari. They were a hundred times worse than the half-dozen human guards he'd been forced to neutralise, even if these Tevinters were particularly well trained.

Unconscious, dosed with enough concentrated magebane to knock out half the Kirkwall Circle, and tossed over Hawke's shoulder like a sack of potatoes, Danarius was one more hidden glyph away from _oops, he was going to escape; sorry Fenris._ By Andraste's perfect tits, it was so tempting to just slit the son of a bitch's throat and be done with it.

Finally, Hawke found a window big enough to fit him and his cargo through without tossing the magister out first. Some Hightown estates just weren't built for a proper kidnapping. He could hear the eerie groaning of more shades farther down the corridor, but he hadn't been hired to exorcise the mansion; doing a quick once-over of the window frame, Hawke pulled one of his smaller daggers from his belt and pried the sash up and away from the sill. Not feeling especially forgiving, Hawke used Danarius' back to hold the leaded window open as he climbed through, but the magister didn't seem to complain.

It had taken a lot of arguing to convince Fenris that no, Hawke did not need an angry, glowing elf to provide a diversion while he took care of Danarius, thank you very much. As useful as such strategy could sometimes be in his line of work, Hawke had been observing the magister for nearly a month; any big fuss and he had little doubt the man would be gone like smoke in the breeze, scuttling back to Minrathous.

Avoiding the scant guards that wandered around after dark, Hawke made his way quickly and silently back to Lowtown, then down to the docks. Whatever nastiness Fenris had planned, it wasn't good business to shit where you ate, and thus Varric and Hawke had agreed years ago that there would be no wet work in the Hanged Man. There were always a few empty warehouses, however, and little chance of being overheard.

When Hawke slipped inside the warehouse they'd decided upon for the hand-off, he could see Fenris pacing between the shadows and the small sphere light cast by a lantern. The elf was scowling, twitching, looking a bit like a caged beast. The feral quality was inappropriately appealing.

"Fenris," he called out quietly, but it still made the elf jerk around like he'd been ambushed. "I've brought you a present."

It was somewhat of a relief and more than a bit heartbreaking when Fenris' expression froze somewhere closer to terror than elation. Hawke knew he'd be sticking around for the final stage of the job— he wasn't about to leave a single elf to deal with the magister all on his own, especially since Fenris had explained the kind of punishments Danarius could inflict through the markings— but he had no great affection for torture. If Fenris had put on a malevolent leer at the first sight of the helpless mage, maybe pulled out an evil cackle for good measure, Hawke would have been more concerned.

The lantern was sitting on a crate, beside which they'd set a simple wooden chair. Hawke padded over and slung Danarius' dead weight into the seat, grunting with effort, then arched back and knuckled his own spine. "Ah, _balls_— Well, I hope you like it, because I'm not taking it back."

Fenris was simply staring at the unconscious mage, and Hawke took the hint that perhaps the elf needed a moment or two— having the bane of your existence suddenly and completely at your mercy was doubtlessly a bit of an intense experience. Grabbing Danarius' limp arms, Hawke pulled them around the man's back and bound his bony wrists together, then move around to bind his ankles to the chair legs. That done, he stood and pulled a vial of vividly pink poison from one of his belt pouches, tipping the mage's head back enough to dribble another small measure through his lips, massaging his throat to encourage swallowing.

When all that was finished, Hawke turned to find Fenris watching _him_, with a wide, gleaming quality to his eyes that screamed _lost_. The look was gone in an instant, but not before Hawke felt sympathy twist in his chest.

"Magebane," he said instead, breaking the silence so Fenris wouldn't have to, and wiggling the vial so its strange, shifting colour shimmered in the light. "It should keep his mana drained for a while. Blood magic… well, I can't do much about that without killing him. I was careful, though; he's not bleeding."

Fenris nodded, his gauntlets creaking in the relative silence of the warehouse as his hands clenched and unclenched rhythmically. "Can you wake him?"

"Yes, whenever you're ready." Again, the elf seemed to hesitate, but only for a moment.

"Do it," he growled, his eyes hardening to sharp chips of jade. "Please."

Reaching into a different pouch, Hawke fished out an enamelled box, flicking the lid open with a thumbnail. The crisp white powder inside wasn't ordinary snuff, and the intensely bitter smell left something to be desired, but it always did its job. Moving around to stand behind the bound mage, Hawke gathered up a pinch of powder and held it under Danarius' nose, pressing the man's mouth shut at the same time. One breath later, Hawke stepped back, melting into the shadows as Danarius coughed and sputtered.

The magister began speaking in what Hawke could only assume was Arcanum, but Fenris replied in Common, his voice flat and hoarse. "None of your pets are here to help you, Danarius. You are alone."

"Fenris." What an awful way to say such a lovely name; the sound of it from the magister's mouth, oily and distasteful, made Hawke frown. "How interesting. I see one of my pets right now, sweet boy, and that will never change, even if you rip my heart from my chest. Do you think killing me will make you any less _mine_?"

Lyrium flared to life, and Hawke wondered if it might be over so soon, but Fenris did not move an inch. "As long as you're dead, I don't care."

"Lie to yourself," Danarius drawled, then twisted his head around to peer into the darkness. Hawke knew he was all but invisible, but it was slightly unnerving all the same. There was something deeply wicked about this magister. "And lie to whatever manner of shadow you hired to bring me here, but do not lie to me. I am all you care about, my little wolf." Keeping his neck craned around, as if completely unconcerned about the murderous elf before him, Danarius raised his voice just slightly. "Whatever he is paying you, or has claimed he will pay, I offer ten times the amount. Did he tell you I am a magister? A senator in the Tevinter Imperium? Free me, and make a very powerful friend."

He should have stayed silent, but Hawke heard himself speak a single word before he could swallow it back. "No."

"Foolish," Danarius hissed, only to choke halfway through, jerking like a puppet on strings. Fenris had moved, quick as a snake, and the brilliant blue light licking over the elf's skin had brightened to near painful intensity. Whatever he was doing to the magister, it sounded like it hurt.

"I will never—" There was a wet noise, a kind of unpleasant crunching that was vaguely familiar, and Danarius whimpered like a beaten dog. Fenris was nearly snarling, barely a handbreadth from the man's face. "Be yours again. You are _nothing_—"

Another squelch, and Hawke could see a dark, glistening lump in Fenris' suddenly blood drenched hand, held up in front of Danarius' no doubt glassy eyes. It would probably be quite difficult to keep focused with your heart torn out.

The heart dropped into Danarius' lap with a sickening thud, only to roll off into the dirt of the warehouse floor a moment later. That morbid little show aside, it was Fenris that drew Hawke's attention.

"Are you all right?" It was a stupid question, but Fenris simply shook his head, still breathing heavily.

"No," he said eventually, then turned towards the door. "I need to be alone. I… I will bring your payment to the dwarf."

And then he was gone, leaving behind a partially gutted and wholly dead magister to dispose of. As distraught as Fenris had obviously been, Hawke was still a tiny bit annoyed by that.

* * *

><p>"Well, it's been a week. I hope you're enjoying the reputation boost," Varric said with false cheeriness, a fork in one hand and a ledger sheet in the other; no one, in Hawke's experience, could multitask like this dwarf. At that moment, for instance, he was reading through the kind of complex financial reports that made Hawke's stomach turn, picking at a lovely meal, chastising his favourite assassin, and being snarky all at the same time.<p>

Hawke waited for the other shoe, putting a sizable dent in his own supper just to keep his mouth busy. He wouldn't ask; it would be so much worse if he asked—

"So Fenris didn't come back with payment?" _Shit. _It took a lot of willpower not to stab himself in the hand. What kind of assassin couldn't keep his sodding tongue in his head?

Glancing over the top of his paperwork, Varric smirked just slightly. "Of course he didn't. I told you the elf wasn't good for the gold, and you know I'm never wrong."

It wasn't as though they were out money (except the coin Hawke had dropped on the ingredients for the magebane, which Varric didn't have to know about until he did up those books at the end of the month). Still, it was… embarrassing.

"All right," he said, shrugging. "Maybe I miscalculated about the client, but otherwise the job went smooth. Very impressive work, if I do say so myself."

That earned him a laugh, which was as good sign. Sometimes, Varric his best friend and Varric his handler didn't mesh quite as well as Hawke might hope, but usually that kind of tension only happened when he was being stupid, so he tried not to dwell on it too much.

"Which you never fail to do," Varric chuckled, setting the papers down for the moment. "You're as brash as an Antivan some days, you know, but you're damn lucky I'm no Crow Master."

"Yes, well." Quirking his mouth in a cheeky smile, Hawke relaxed as the unpleasant atmosphere faded. "If you ever decide to string me up by my thumbs and flay me, I expect you to do it with the appropriate amount of panache. And also a ladder of some sort."

Whatever Varric was going to say was interrupted by a knock on the suite's door, followed by Norah's voice filtering through the wood.

"Serah Tethras?" The door creaked open, and the serving girl's dark head peeked inside. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but you've got a visitor, messere. Says it's important."

After a quick glance shared between them, Varric motioned for Hawke to remain sitting. They were friends, after all, and both careful enough that sharing a meal wasn't especially incriminating. Regardless, Hawke palmed a pair of throwing knives under the table.

Varric sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Is it some mysterious creature in a long black cloak? Maker's breath, who is it, Norah? _Details._"

The woman's face pinched, aggravated, and Hawke decided to get his own drinks for a while. Spit did not make the rat piss they served as ale taste any better. "An elf," she snapped. "Same one who was in last week. White hair, tattoos."

"Oh ho, I see." Blight take all shrewd, smirking dwarves; Varric should not have looked nearly so pleased to have been proven wrong, or possibly proven wrong. Hawke kept his own expression very neutral. "Send him in, darling. Thanks." The _darling_ wasn't enough to brighten Norahh's scowl, and the woman withdrew from the doorway without another word.

Then Fenris appeared, and Hawke almost felt bad when his presence at the table made the elf freeze like a startled hare, eyes widening in surprise. He _almost_ felt bad, but not quite, since he'd still been left alone to haul, weigh down, and sink a wretched old magister's carcass in the harbour. Usually clean up was part of the service he offered, if necessary, but _usually_ the bodies didn't have great gaping holes torn somewhere inside otherwise unmarked chests, which apparently could make a corpse sick up an impressive amount of blood without warning. That was knowledge Hawke had never realised he didn't want, until suddenly he had it.

"Good evening, friend." Varric plastered on a charming smile, motioning towards the other end of the table. "Have a seat, if you'd like. Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you." Norahh, who'd been lingering outside the door, pulled it shut before presumably going about her other business. Fenris shifted from foot to foot, looking mildly uncomfortable. "I haven't been able to gather up as much coin as we'd agreed upon. I've come to discuss another form of payment, if you are agreeable."

This wasn't Hawke's area, which was probably for the best; he really didn't want to test his voice at the moment, given how dry his throat was. Motioning to a chair again, Varric's tone grew slightly steelier. "Sit, or at least come farther in away from the door. Subtlety may not be your thing, what with the glowing and the spikes, but hey, give it a whirl. I insist."

Fenris did as he was bid, stalking over to stand tensely beside the table. Hawke had spent much of the past month in the elf's company, building a bit of a friendly rapport when he wasn't actively spying on Danarius, and he was a little put out that Fenris seemed completely intent on pretending he wasn't in the room at all.

"So, what's your offer?" Varric asked, sliding his plate aside and lacing his fingers together on the table. Despite being ignored, Hawke was quite interested in what the answer might be.

"I understand you, or your House, keeps a network of hired swords. I offer my services as a mercenary until my debt is paid." Finally, Fenris' eyes shifted over, and he looked Hawke straight in the face. It was… very intense. "I owe you a great deal, and I would not have my first act as a truly free man be reneging on my word."

Varric, the prick, just had to ruin the moment with more _words_. "Well, with your unique skills, I can see upping your rate a bit, but most mercs don't get paid a fortune. It'll be months before you pay off this contract."

And just like that, those soulful green eyes were gone, focused on Varric again. Hawke ground his teeth.

"I understand," Fenris replied, dipping his head slightly. "And I am at your disposal, if you'll have me."

_Maker, yes, I'll have you every which way. Any way you like, **every** way you like. I'll **invent** ways to have you. I'll—_

Very careful not to let the pain show on his face, Hawke poked himself in the thumb with one of the throwing knives. The sharp sting was enough to shake his thoughts mostly clear of that naughty little side trip. It was less uncomfortable than banging his cock against the underside of Varric's short-arsed dwarven table would have been.

"That works for me," Varric was saying, sparing a brief, knowing glance in Hawke's direction. "I'll make up a contract within a day or so, once I decide on the length of your employment. You are, of course, welcome to negotiate terms, and if you'd like to discuss what a hard-ass I am to work for before you sign anything, I'm sure Hawke would be happy to oblige."

"He's a pussycat," Hawke piped up, almost automatically. "Claws and all."

Reading people was a natural talent that Hawke had nurtured in himself from a very young age— it was incredibly useful to figure out what townsfolk were thinking when trying to protect an apostate baby sister. At that moment, it was clear to Hawke that Fenris wanted to say something, but at the same time, the elf wanted desperately to remain quiet.

It was utterly moronic, and not just because he had a significant portion of a delicious supper still sitting on the plate before him, but Hawke pushed himself away from the table and hauled himself to his feet.

"Come on," he said, padding around the table and trying not to notice the way Fenris' posture stiffened. "Let's go downstairs for a drink, where we can at least pretend the boss won't hear every word we say."

Fenris hesitated, more than a little wary, but then Varric jerked his chin towards the door. "That's cute, Hawke. But please, both of you go and maybe I can get some damned work done."

Apparently, that was enough to get Fenris moving, striding out of the room as if he'd been forcefully dismissed, and Hawke had to pick up his pace in order to catch up with him on the stairs.

"Hey, wait—" He stopped short of grabbing Fenris' arm; someone who purposefully dressed in so many spikes almost surely had some issues with personal space, and Hawke was trying to be friendly (or possibly endearing, if the opportunity arose). "Fenris, I was serious about the drink. I'm buying."

The elf stalled, glancing around the tavern before peering over at Hawke through the fringe of his hair. "Why?"

Hawke scrambled quickly for an answer that wasn't _because I want to do utterly filthy things to you,_ hiding that minor pause with a warm laugh. "Because… Because I like you." Oh Maker, that might have been worse. Fenris' eyes widened, then narrowed sharply, and how in the blighted Void could this elf make him feel like such a fumbling _boy_? "I mean, we get on all right, and we're likely going to be working together at least a bit. I just… ah, _shit_. Could we just have a drink? A friendly chat?"

"All right." Even though Fenris sounded like he was agreeing to some invasive medical procedure, it was better than a resounding no. Smiling broadly, Hawke waved his hand in the direction of his usual table.

"You sit, and I'll go grab some drinks. What'll you have?"

"Whatever you're drinking will be fine."

It might be a challenge, but Hawke was determined to make this a pleasant experience. Meandering over to the bar, he prodded Corff into cracking open a bottle of rather nice Starkhaven whisky (Varric was going to skin him, even though he'd paid with his own coin), returning to the table with the bottle and two glasses in hand. The rich, amber liquid earned him a few looks from other patrons, but as usual, most attention skittered away rather quickly. This was one of the few places in Kirkwall where most people had a fairly decent idea of what he did for a living, which was a strangely liberating feeling.

Fenris gave the whisky a sceptical frown, making no move to touch the glass Hawke poured for him. "I've no wish to add to my debt."

"I'm sorry, did I stutter when I said I was buying?" Taking a small sip from his own glass, Hawke savoured the warm, slightly woody taste and the burn that followed. "Mm. You said whatever I was drinking was fine, and I'm certainly _not_ drinking the swill they serve to everyone else. No debt, no trick, just drinking."

After a long moment of silence and one aborted attempt, Fenris finally reached out and took the glass. He glared at the whisky like it had insulted his mother, sniffing it with an expression of mild distaste. "I suppose accepting a drink from an assassin isn't the stupidest thing I've ever done."

"That's the spirit." They'd need to work on excising the a-word from Fenris' public vocabulary, but that was a discussion for a later time. The elf took a tentative sip, looking both surprised and pleased at the taste, and Hawke drummed his fingers playfully across the table near where Fenris' elbow was propped. "See? We still get along famously."

Leaning back in his seat, Fenris spared a fleeting look at Hawke's retreating hand, then back up to the man's face. His expression was slightly confused, but less hostile than even a moment before. If he squinted, Hawke could just make out a faint glimpse of the elf he'd been getting to know. "You're not what I expected."

"Would you be at all surprised to know that I get that a lot?" When Fenris shook his head, with maybe a hint of a smile teasing around his lips, Hawke chuckled, taking another sip and lowering his voice to the softest of murmurs. "I'm very good at what I do, Fenris, but that doesn't mean I have to be a monster all the time. I'm efficient and skilled, but I'm very rarely cruel. And as for the rest of it, well, life's too short to be dour."

"I'll take your word on that," Fenris said quietly in return, and Hawke smirked over the rim of his glass.

"You should. I consider myself a bit of an expert."

* * *

><p>More than half a bottle of whisky later, and Maker be praised, Fenris actually smiled. A real, eye-crinkling kind of smile, and Hawke was entirely <em>ruined<em>by the sight of it. Andraste's grace, he was in so much trouble.

"No, but seriously," he was saying, using the excuse of seeking a bit of privacy to lean closer. Fenris, after some initial shying away, was allowing it. "Varric's almost entirely honest and aboveboard when it comes to his people, and you're one of his people now. You've got nothing to worry about. He's still a dwarf, though, so just make sure there's nothing in the fine print that you're uncomfortable with."

It was meant to be reassuring, but Fenris fidgeted, his cheeks colouring faintly as that blessed smile fell away. "I can't…" Trailing off, the elf slammed back the rest of his whisky in one large mouthful, gulping far quicker than a vintage this nice deserved. "I can't read. Slaves are not permitted to learn."

He looked so bloody insecure about the whole thing, and Hawke refrained from pointing out that the majority of free folk couldn't read either. There were probably less than a half dozen people in the whole tavern who knew their letters even passably. In hindsight, he probably should have just said all that, rather than the rubbish that actually managed to gurgle out of his mouth.

"Oh. I, er… if you wanted, sometime, I could try and teach you. If you wanted." Obviously, this whisky was cursed. Hawke took a moment to consider how much it would hurt to bite out his own tongue.

Fenris' shocked expression at the offer was answer enough, and Hawke quickly drew back into his own seat before the glowing thing could happen again. He was rather attached to his entrails, after all. "Ah, yeah, sorry. That was weird, wasn't it?"

"It was… unexpected." A bemused frown was better than a hand through his chest, but Hawke didn't relax quite yet. "But I appreciate the offer."

An awkward silence descended, and cursed or not, Hawke plunged head first into another glass of liquor. Finally, the scrape of Fenris' chair across the filthy floor made him jump.

The whisky made everything a little wobbly, but he wasn't anywhere near rat-arsed, so he managed to look up at a suddenly standing Fenris without blinking like an idiot.

"I should go," the elf said, and Hawke was a bit alarmed that he couldn't quite figure out the tone of his voice. It was… rough, maybe a little embarrassed or annoyed, and something else. "Thank you for the drinks. All things considered, this was rather enjoyable."

"Really?" He may have sounded a tad too hopeful, but it made Fenris smile again, this time somewhat drunkenly, so it was worth it.

"Really. You're better company than drinking alone, at least." Something in Hawke's pants and something in his chest started doing a surprisingly well-choreographed dance, keeping time with the thudding of his heart. "I suppose I'll see you later, Hawke."

There was a chance, a good chance, that Hawke watched the tavern door for far too long after Fenris disappeared through it, all while polishing off the last of the whisky. Then, just to be a touch more pathetic, he may have staggered back up to Varric's suite and all but demanded the dwarf give Fenris a fair shake.

Varric just stared at him, one eyebrow raised, then pointed towards the bed. "Sleep it off, lover boy. Last thing I need is you drowning in a ditch on your way home, the very same day I put an insane elf on the payroll."

"I'm fine," he grumbled, frustrated in several extremely important ways, but crawled into Varric's dinky little bed regardless, curling up around a pillow. He was _fine_, not really drunk or especially depressed for no good reason, but he was also very sleepy.

* * *

><p>The next few weeks were interesting, but not in a naked, sweaty tangle sort of way, so there was some significant room for improvement. Hawke took on two minor contracts, but it was nothing that he could even pretend required mercenary support, so he really only saw Fenris on those occasions the elf deigned to visit the Hanged Man.<p>

Which had happened twenty-three evenings over the span of seven weeks, not that Hawke was counting.

It was on that twenty-third evening, in the middle of a friendly game of Wicked Grace, that their strange, vague little mating ritual (Varric's words) decided to take another sharp turn.

"So, elf," Varric said in that perfectly offhanded way that almost always meant he was about to say something very pointed, or give as close to an order as he ever did. Hawke tensed, glancing up from his cards, but poor Fenris had no idea. "Not to provoke a cultural incident, but do they not have baths in Tevinter? You're getting a bit… greasy."

"Andraste's ass, Varric," Hawke hissed, appalled even if it was sort of true, while Fenris barely reacted.

"It hasn't rained recently, and the water in the harbour is worse than most cesspools." He shrugged, tossing a silver into the pot. "It's not as though I stink."

"And thank the Maker for small mercies," Varric muttered, shooting Hawke a dirty look when the man kicked him sharply in the ankle. "Maybe you'd have the coin for a proper room, _with a bath, _if you were better at cards."

Fenris grunted noncommittally, but wheels were already turning in Hawke's mind, and the image they were grinding out was quite disagreeable. "Fenris," he said slowly. "You told me you'd found a decent place to live."

"I did." When that appeared to be the end of it, Hawke threw his cards down and openly glared, waiting. Fenris, after a long moment of heavy silence, sighed in obvious frustration. "I am an elf, in case you missed that. Staying anywhere _decent _is invariably going to be a temporary arrangement."

Both Hawke and Varric knew better than to suggest the Alienage as an option. Still, this wasn't acceptable.

Picking at a crack in the table, Hawke started a mental list of alternatives. "We could clear out the last of the oogie boogies from that old mansion in Hightown, right? I understand its former tenant left the city quite abruptly." That wasn't strictly true; Danarius was probably still mostly in town, if you counted the bottom of the harbour as part of outlying Kirkwall.

Before Fenris could say yea or nay, Varric shook his head. "No dice. One of those vultures snapped the place up a week after it emptied. Templars are still milling in and out, trying to get it clean."

"I don't need you to find me a home, Hawke." Fenris' voice was tight with leashed annoyance. "My stipend is enough to take a room here if I wished it, but I don't. I've survived like this for years, no worse for wear. Leave it be."

"I won't," Hawke snapped back, vehemently. "I'll hound you about this until you either give in, or kill me, and if you kill me, you'll owe Varric so much that you'll still be working to pay it back from beyond the bloody Veil. So there."

And that's how the evening ended, with Fenris all but snarling something in Arcanum and storming out of the tavern, and Varric leaving Hawke to settle the tab as a reward for the kicking.

True to his word, however, Hawke didn't let up about it, even after two days of rain made Fenris' hair considerably less limp and oily. It was the principal of the thing, as well as the thought of the stubborn bastard of an elf squatting in abandoned shacks and warehouses, or sleeping in alleys when nothing else was available.

* * *

><p>"Won't you shut <em>up<em>," Fenris snapped, which was becoming something of a favourite phrase ever since Hawke had begun his campaign of nagging. It had been over a month since that first argument in the tavern, but there had been several more since, occasionally quite heated. Never the right kind of heated, in Hawke's opinion, but every little bit of progress was sickeningly uplifting.

This time, Hawke had tracked Fenris all the way to the filthy little hovel he'd taken up as his current residence— the place was barely a lean-to, and with winter quickly approaching, it was actually colder inside than out.

"What would you have me do, Hawke? I could find a house, and then kill the first humans who try to run me out of it, but I don't imagine Varric would consider that especially _subtle._"

This fleapit stunk of piss and sewage, like a distilled and rotten version of the Hanged Man, and Hawke would forever claim it was the burning desire to get out into clean air again that pulled his next words from him. "Move in with me."

"What?" Hawke froze, completely stunned. He'd just said that out loud.

"Move in with me," he managed to force out again, only sounding a little strangled. Fuck it; this was not the time to falter. "I've got a spare room."

With the way Fenris was gaping at him, Hawke was half-tempted to check if his trousers were undone, or maybe he'd grown an extra head. Swallowing thickly, he kept his own incredulity firmly suppressed.

"You're serious," Fenris murmured, and it wasn't quite a question, but Hawke nodded anyway.

"For once, yes. You're my friend, and I hate the thought of you slumming around like this. Please."

"I don't…" Calling up every ounce of adorable he could muster, Hawke dipped his chin and pouted, just a little. Incredibly, it seemed to work (and it also made Fenris blush faintly, which was something Hawke filed away). "Fine. All right. I will… move in with you. On a temporary basis."

That was precisely how he ended up with a half-naked elf in his tenement, oblivious (or at least feigning obliviousness) to the absolute _torture_he was inflicting upon one poor, sexually frustrated assassin. Holy Maker, he'd asked for this, literally. But if Fenris kept stretching like that, all tight leggings and bare, muscled back, it was possible Hawke might pass out. Or pounce on him.

No, he wouldn't do either of those things. What he would do was stop peeping at Fenris when the elf was in his own bedroom, even if the door was slightly ajar. He was being terribly creepy, and not a very good friend at all.

Scuttling back to his own room while Fenris continued moving furniture around to his liking, Hawke bit his fist and almost wished his mother was there. He wouldn't be so very tempted to burst in and ravish one scandalously sexy elf if she was living with him, instead of in that nice, secure estate in Hightown. Playing house with one's mother and sister was hardly feasible for someone in his line of work (at least not for an assassin who cared about his family's safety), but Andraste's blood, in this case it might have at least kept him a little more honest.

"_Shit,_" he hissed softly, leaning heavily against his firmly closed bedroom door and slipping one hand under the waist of his trousers. He was already half-hard just from a glimpse of Fenris' trim muscles rippling, highlighted by beautiful swirls of shimmering lyrium that were just _begging_ to be mapped, and now he was about to rub one out while the elf puttered around innocently in the next room. Unrequited lust (tempered by a frightening amount of affection) was apparently turning him a bit pervy. Wasn't that just lovely.

Pushing his trousers and smalls down over his hips just enough to free his prick, Hawke spit into his palm and started stroking with no preamble, unwilling to draw out this mortifying lapse of decency any longer than necessary. This was certainly not the first time that Fenris, or thoughts of Fenris, had put him in such a state, but it was the first time he'd ever given in and jerked off while the object of his obsession was _so bloody close_.

Short, rough strokes weren't doing it, not quickly enough, but it felt every kind of wrong to let his mind wander into fantasy just then. Hawke flinched at the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor, and gritted his teeth. At any moment, Fenris could call for a bit of help moving an awkward wardrobe, and he'd be caught with hard-on in hand. Efficiency was winning out over creepiness, and Hawke stifled a moan as his desire began to take shape.

Elf-shape. Warm, firm skin under his palms as he explored the entirety of that gorgeous elf-shape, and every touch of his hands, his tongue, would draw such rough, breathless sounds from Fenris. His tongue— _Fenris'_tongue, soft and pink and wound around Hawke's cock as the elf sucked him deep, peering up at him with mossy green eyes gone dark and hot with passion. Fenris' long, callused fingers teasing up behind his balls, pressing and rubbing while Hawke quaked and shuddered under that glorious touch, then stretching and twisting into his arse, thrusting, a promise for later— he'd have Hawke on his knees, arse in the air, pounding—

_Fuck._

Hawke gasped, maintaining barely enough presence of mind to catch the ropes of come that exploded out of him before he made a mess of his trousers. His knees wobbled, not entirely convinced they were content to hold him upright, and Hawke slid down to sit on the floor. He was somewhat less humiliated than he'd feared, but still horrifically frustrated.

This was… this was going to be an interesting living arrangement.

* * *

><p>Three months later Hawke hadn't died of horniness yet, so that was something. He'd come close the day Fenris decided wearing one of Hawke's shirts was an acceptable clothing choice for a lazy, stormy afternoon, but he'd somehow managed to survive the hours of furious wanking necessary to properly address such a sight. Hawke wasn't an especially brawny man, but he was tall and somewhat broad in the shoulders; it was just enough, it seemed, to allow Fenris' collarbones to peek out of the shirt, taunting. Buttery soft leather leggings, so perfectly tight they might as well have been bare legs completed the utterly sinful look, and after a bit of hopeless fighting with his baser nature, Hawke had been summarily indisposed for the rest of that day.<p>

Fenris hadn't said anything, but the occasional meaningful glance simply served to remind Hawke that yes, this elf knew precisely what kind of effect he was having, and yes, he was going to keep being an unbearable cock-tease for the foreseeable future. It would have been infuriating if it wasn't so clear Fenris wasn't being deliberately cruel— he was simply hesitant, in a strange, prickly kind of way, but certainly not uninterested. It was a delicate operation, wooing a former slave with so many challenging quirks, but Hawke was nothing if not stubborn as a bronto.

Then a bloodied, filthy mercenary came stumbling into the Hanged Man while Hawke was sorting out the particulars of a new contract, and the world went red.

"I hope you told him to cram his—" The furious thumping on the door of Varric's suite made Hawke pause mid-sentence, rising smoothly to his feet and drawing two long, wickedly curved daggers. Beside him, Bianca's mechanisms whirred and clicked, priming for trouble. "Are we expecting company?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing," Varric murmured, and the door shuddered again under someone's frantically banging fist. "Let's see what's so important, hm?"

The door was locked and bolted, as per usual when they were discussing serious business, and Hawke moved silently towards it, sparing a glance at Varric before undoing the latch. When he pulled the door open, stepping swiftly out of the way of whatever waited on the other side, he wasn't quite expecting some grubby, hatchet-faced man to collapse at his feet.

"He's one of our mercenaries," Varric said almost instantly, slinging Bianca back over his shoulder. Hawke frowned, but sheathed his blades and reached down to haul the sputtering man to his feet. "Take a minute, Declan, and tell me what the problem is."

The man twitched away from Hawke's touch and ducked his head, possibly trying to look contrite but mostly just achieving ridiculous. "We were ambushed, messere, on the way to that Carta job. Don't think anyone else made it."

Hawke did not miss the horrified expression that flitted lightning-quick over Varric's face; it was never pleasant to lose so many, and—

"They wanted the elf," Declan continued, and Hawke blinked, fighting a wave of dizziness as his gut dropped to his feet. The _elf_? "Whole pack of Tevinters, armed to the bloody teeth, had a mage with them and all—"

"Declan," Varric said sharply, while Hawke focused on his breathing. Losing his mind now would help no one. He would be calm, and find out exactly who needed to die for this. "Did they kill the elf or capture him?"

The mercenary shifted farther away from Hawke, glancing nervously between his boss and the assassin. "Don't know, messere. Wanted us to just hand over the slave, they said. Elf fought real hard, killed a score of 'em himself, but then the mage did something that made them tattoos on him glow and he screeched like an alley cat. I, er… they weren't interested in the rest of us, so I ran when I got the chance."

Hawke took one measured breath, then grabbed the mercenary by the throat and slammed him hard against the wall. Wide, terrified eyes gawked at him, blood splattered hands clawed desperately at his forearm, and somewhere nearby Varric said his name, but Hawke ignored it all.

"Declan." He was utterly calm, resisting the urge to squeeze until the man's pathetic wheezing was silenced. This Declan was not to blame. "Do you know where these Tevinters might be now?"

"_No,_" the man whined, shaking his head as violently as Hawke's grip allowed. "Please—"

"Hawke," Varric said again, closer this time. "I'll find them. Let him go."

Hawke did so, releasing his hold and stepping back as Declan swore and coughed. Turning to Varric, he noted absently that the dwarf's hands were help up in what looked like surrender. "How long will it take?"

The grimace he received in response was not heartening, but Hawke continued to focus on each breath. "Not long, I hope." Glancing over at Declan, Varric jerked his thumb towards the table. "Go sit; I've got questions for you. Both of you wait here while I get some runners moving, shake up some contacts. You—" He pointed at Hawke. "Try not to kill anyone until I've got a better handle on what the fuck happened."

It took just over three hours of chatter and palm-greasing to narrow their scope down to the Holding Caves around the city, and Hawke was slowly losing himself to the darkness creeping up from deep in his chest. Finally, Varric leaned over his map and circled two small dots on the Wounded Coast, less than a quarter-mile from each other.

"It's one of these two boltholes," he began to say, but Hawke was already stalking towards the door. "Hawke, shit, _wait_. You'll get him killed going in alone!"

That thought stopped him, but only barely. "I won't be slowed down," he growled, his voice deadly quiet and pitched low, but didn't take another step.

"I know that, but you've got a better chance if you take some men with you, even just to keep sentries busy." It was damnably true, but that didn't make the black beast howling in Hawke's soul any more peaceful. "And I'm coming too. The elf still owes me a chunk of coin."

The joke fell painfully flat, but the sliver of Hawke that was still human appreciated the effort. The rest of him was simply roaring to get underway.

* * *

><p>There were Tevinter hunters and slavers in abundance, a handful of hostile mages, and more fell creatures than Hawke ever cared to see again, but absolutely nothing mattered until he saw Fenris, stripped naked and beaten bloody but still breathing— <em>thank the Maker<em>. Some manner of magic held him though, keeping him rigid and unconscious on the thick stone altar at the centre of the caverns.

It was this magic that Hawke was currently working on getting dispelled.

"Do you see this, witch?" He dug his fingers into the woman's bruised jaw, forcing her to look at the dagger in his other hand. A thin coating of flame licked over the polished silverite, obscuring the reflection of whatever emotion may have lit up in this magister's icy gaze. Hawke had subdued her with magebane and a vicious punch to the face, careful to draw as little blood as possible as he bound her wrists and ankles, and now he crouched behind her kneeling form, speaking softly against her ear.

"Fenris helped me with it," he continued, turning the blade slowly to show the runes carved into its surface. "Just in case I ever needed to kill another blood mage. See there, those are for spell resistance, and that one makes all my strikes likely to paralyse. And this—" Bringing the flaming blade barely a hairsbreadth from her skin, Hawke continued to speak over her quiet whimpering. He was holding her mouth shut tightly, and apparently she had something to say, but he wasn't finished. "Should cauterize any cuts before they bleed. It's rather a brilliant combination, don't you think?"

"Gold," the magister gasped, the moment Hawke's grip eased. "Power beyond reckoning— what, what do you want in exchange for my life?"

"Him." Hawke used the dagger to motion towards the prone, unmoving elf. "Just him. But you know that already. You're stalling, thinking your pets might come to save you. I can assure you—" Quick as a snake, Hawke sliced a deep, sizzling cut along the woman's cheek, clamping his hand over her agonised scream. "You are all alone."

The sounds of fighting from elsewhere in the caverns were fading, and the magister seemed to realise her chances of rescue were quickly waning if her slumping shoulders were any indication— that, or it was just the paralysis rune. Regardless, Hawke gave her another chance.

"Once more," he murmured silkily, letting the razor-sharp edge of the dagger warm the delicate skin under her nostril. "Free him now, or I'll take your nose first. Then one of those pretty azure eyes."

"Blood magic," she rasped, trembling in his arms. "The elf— he's held with blood magic. I need blood to free him."

"Really?" Pressing the blade just enough to make the woman squeal, probably blistering her a tiny bit, Hawke considered his options. "You wouldn't lie to me now, would you darling? That would make me terribly cross."

She was struggling sluggishly, but still she hadn't shed a single tear. It could have been as simple as her temperament, or some kind of Tevinter training, but it made him wary. "No, no, _no_— I swear—"

"Up, then." Sliding his grip from her jaw to her throat, Hawke reached down and grabbed the woman's bound wrists, yanking her to her feet. He was relatively careful not to burn her fingers with the dagger. "I've got an acquaintance who happens to dabble a bit in blood magic, you know. If you try to cross me, I'll take my chances with her."

Tightening his hold on her neck, Hawke sliced the ties that held her hands together and turned her to face him. Under the fear and the pain, her expression was still too shrewd.

"Try to enthral me, witch," he purred, smiling. "See how quickly I tear out your throat." Keeping careful watch on her hands and her mouth for any sign of casting, Hawke tucked the enchanted dagger into its sheath and took one of the smaller knives from his baldric. "Now, to free him, tell me where to cut and how."

The magister's eyes darted from the knife, to his face, and back again. "If I free him, will you let me live?"

"Free him quickly, and I'll consider it." When the woman hesitated, Hawke leaned forward so quickly she yelped. He could smell her breath, mint and citrus under the stink of burnt flesh. "Keep fucking me around, and I'll tear you apart. One tiny piece at a time."

"All right," she whispered, grabbing weakly at his wrist. "Yes, all right… take me to him."

With her feet still tied together, it might have been a bit awkward for the magister to walk over to the altar— luckily, Hawke had no intention of doing anything but dragging her, so that solved that problem. She cringed almost meekly under his hands, but it was too slick to be true meekness.

"Where and how," he repeated, flashing the knife in front of her pale face when they were finally looming over Fenris. Seeing him lying there, unnaturally still yet shuddering with shallow breaths… Hawke swallowed back a rush of fury that would have spilled a bit too much magister blood, at least for the moment. "Hurry now, before I lose patience and start my own ritual."

"Down my forearm." Moving slowly, the woman lifted both arms and slid her thumb along the line he was meant to cut. Her skin was already a spider web of faint, very well healed scars. "Here to here. Not deeply enough to sever tendons, but enough to gush blood." It was slightly tempting to explain just how little he cared about her tendons, but Hawke refrained. There was probably an incantation required, and if she knew for certain he had absolutely no intention of letting her walk out alive, she might hold her tongue. Instead, he relaxed his fingers around her neck just slightly and nodded towards her outstretched arm.

"Hold it steady, or I may cut you deeper than you'd like. If he's not sitting up before your blood hits the floor, you'll not live an instant longer. Is that clear?"

"Yes," the woman whispered, sibilant and soft. "I am ready."

"Good." With a flick of his hand, Hawke had her flesh laid open from wrist to elbow, but the blood did not simply spill out in a rush as a normal wound might have. Rivulets ran over her skin, dripping onto the altar like a sacrifice, but at least some of the blood rose in a deep red mist, swirling through the air between them before sweeping over Fenris like a shroud.

Keeping his attention firmly on the magister was one of the most difficult things he'd ever done, but he couldn't risk letting his gaze wander for even an instant. He had given a deadly weapon to a powerful enemy, but when Fenris sucked in a great, gasping breath, it was all entirely worth it.

The elf was coughing, groaning in pain and confusion, but there were no shrieks of agony or gurgling death rattles. So far, the witch had done as she'd been bid.

"Fenris," Hawke said softly, allowing only the barest fraction of his staggering relief to bleed into his voice. This magister had no real concept of the depths of affection he held for her intended victim, and Hawke felt no burning need to enlighten her… not with words, at least. "Are you all right?"

"I…" He could hear the shuffling of a body moving around, groans turning to muted grunts of discomfort as Fenris came back to himself. "I am… what… _Hadriana_."

The magister's lip curled ever so slightly, the faintest hint of a sneer, but the contempt was quickly schooled away.

"I've done as you—" she began to say, likely the start of some pathetic bargaining, but the painful crush of Hawke's hand against her windpipe turned her words into a muffled wail. Before she could call upon the powers of her blood any further, he yanked her forward, driving the small knife deep into the soft spot at the base of her skull, then twisted it with all the strength in his arm.

The magister dropped like a stone, and Hawke was finally able to turn to Fenris, to see those gorgeous green eyes looking back at him, aware and alive.

He wanted to grab hold and never let him go. He wanted _desperately_ to pull him into one of those bottomless kinds of kisses that made the rest of the world fade to unimportance, to touch every inch of his skin and soothe every blighted scrape and bruise, and to do all this warm and clean and curled up together under his quilts, more than content to stay in their natty little tenement until the sun burned out.

He wanted to stomp that magister bitch's head into jam, just for good measure, but he refrained from indulging in any of those powerful impulses. Barely.

They stared at each other for a moment, unmoving. Then, finally, Hawke pointed back at the woman's corpse. "So, friend of yours?"

Fenris blinked slowly; it looked like a painful manoeuvre, given the large, swollen knot raised from his cheekbone to his temple, and the vivid crimson splotch that darkened most of the white of his left eye. There was more swelling around his jaw, bloody abrasions all along his shoulders and chest, and what looked like bruises from boot kicks peppering his ribs. That didn't even cover the damage to his legs or his back, and Hawke needed to stop cataloguing injuries before he lost his mind entirely. Later, once they were safely back in Kirkwall, he could go completely crazy.

"You came for me. I didn't think…" Before Hawke could be truly offended by the implication there, Fenris shook his head, taking a deep breath. "I didn't think you would find me in time. Thank you."

It was slightly difficult to find some humour here, when his throat felt like he'd been gargling with broken glass, but Hawke managed. "Yes, well, it's not every day I get to play the dashing hero, you know. I could—"

The door at the far end of the room opened, scraping loudly and jarringly in the relative quiet, and always the consummate gentleman, Varric let Bianca precede him. "Well isn't that just typical." Glancing around, no doubt taking careful note of the naked elf and very dead mage, Varric hefted his crossbow to rest casually against his shoulder. "I'm working my ass off turning Tevinters into pincushions, and you two are hiding in here making eyes at each other. Maker's balls, could we get back to civilization now, please?"


	2. Chapter 2

"I know what you're going to say." Hawke hadn't meant to startle, but Fenris jerked around nonetheless, grimacing in pain at the quick move. They'd finally made it home after an incredibly arduous journey back to the city, but the pigheaded bastard seemed determined to refuse all but the smallest amount of _those foul healing draughts_. "But that healer in Darktown owes Varric a favour—"

"No." Turning back towards the basin, which was filled with steaming water already gone murky and faintly pink, Fenris picked up the washcloth and rang it out again. Most of the dirt and blood was gone from his face and neck, but his movements had been excruciatingly slow before he knew Hawke was watching. "And now is not the best time to sneak around as you do. Or meddle."

"Hey now, I don't—" Pushing off from his slouch against the door frame, Hawke padded farther into Fenris' bedroom, trying not to ogle the way the loose cotton trousers (unwillingly borrowed after Hawke insisted that leggings and torn up legs did not mix) sat low on his hips despite the tightly knotted drawstring. "All right, I do both of those things almost constantly, but it's all part of the larger tapestry of my irresistible charm." When Fenris snorted, scrubbing too harshly along his bare collarbones, Hawke slipped even closer, well into the realm of his personal space.

"Hawke," Fenris said, his voice pitched low with warning. "Don't."

"I wouldn't." Shuttered eyes flickered in his direction, and battered shoulders relaxed fractionally. In return, Hawke offered a smile that may have been too soft and not nearly rakish enough. "You've got a gash on your back, though, and if you don't let me at least clean it, you'll get an infection and die, but not before you've gone batty from some hideous blood fever. I'd rather not have a dead elf stinking up the house, if it's all the same."

The washcloth hit the water with a splash, and Fenris was suddenly wound tight as a bow again, turning his head sharply away. "I said _don't_. Leave me be."

"And I said I wouldn't, and I won't. Leave you be, or the other thing. Neither." He didn't miss the simmering glow that had started across Fenris' skin, just a flicker of blue. "Your wounds need to be tended properly. I promise I'll behave. On my word as an assassin and a scoundrel." When that didn't get him a chuckle or even a glance, Hawke changed tack. "On my word as your friend, then."

After a long, tense silence, Fenris huffed out an irritated breath. "You are infuriating."

"I'm also witty, handsome, and very good with my hands. Remember the tapestry thing? My tapestry of diverse and endearing charms?" Unwilling to test his luck much farther, at least for the moment, Hawke reached for the washcloth, squeezing out enough water that it wouldn't drip. "I'm going to touch you now, just a bit. Please don't punch me through the chest."

The first feather-light stroke made Fenris flinch, but otherwise he stayed perfectly still. The wound Hawke had specifically mentioned was a cut curving from the base of his neck across one shoulder blade, unpleasantly deep but not dangerously so, and it was already a bit hot and angry looking, likely from the filth caked in it. Very gently, and being as careful as possible to touch mainly with the washcloth, Hawke wiped away every trace of dirt and dried blood.

"There are two more scrapes along your spine," he murmured, purposely keeping his gaze away from the elegantly tapered ears so very close to him. If he even dared to consider what sort of noises he might be able to draw out, just by sucking on one firm tip—

No. He would behave.

"Just do it, then." Those words, that husky voice… Maker have mercy, they almost undid him. Biting his lip just shy of drawing blood, Hawke continued cleaning Fenris' back and managed to keep his hands from shaking, which was no small feat. It felt a little like bathing a statue, except for the sound of Fenris' breathing (maybe a little stuttered, a little affected) and the warmth of his skin.

He was rinsing the cloth, nearly finished with the raw scratches that tore across the small of Fenris' back, when a hoarse voice stopped him short. "I never expected her to come after me, not with Danarius dead. I was a fool."

Before he could think better of it, Hawke spoke, returning to glide the washcloth slowly over the last streaks of dirt. "Who was she?"

"Hadriana. Danarius' apprentice." Hawke could see Fenris' fingers curl into tight fists where they hung at his sides. "When I was a slave, she was a torment, a sadist, and I was powerless to fight back. With Danarius presumed dead, she wanted to claim all of his… assets. I don't wish to imagine the horrors she would have inflicted upon me, without him to keep her in check."

Careful of injuries, and even more careful to move at a snail's pace, Hawke eased one arm around Fenris' ribs, and when he heard no protest except a slight hitch in his breathing, he laid his hand lightly against the centre of his chest. The heart under his palm was hammering madly.

"I would have bloodied a swath from here to Minrathous," Hawke said softly, leaning down to ghost his lips against Fenris' shoulder, nothing but gentle and chaste. He'd made a promise, and he would keep it, but this sentiment would not be stifled for a moment longer. "I would have skinned that bitch alive. There aren't enough demons in the Fade to keep me from coming for you."

Fenris made a quiet, choked sound, but Hawke was already stepping away to a respectable distance, draping the washcloth over the edge of the basin. "I'll leave you to finish cleaning up." He swallowed, very aware that Fenris hadn't even tried to look back at him, and more than a little ashamed that he'd let himself bend his promise like that. "And I'll make us a bite of supper. Call me if you want a hand with anything else."

* * *

><p>A few days later, Fenris was nearly mended, thanks in no small part to the dram of healing draught Hawke managed to browbeat him into drinking. The worst of the bruises had faded to a sickly yellow-green, and the deepest cuts were well scabbed; all in all, he looked good for a elf who'd so recently been thrashed by a pack of heavily armed slavers and a viciously cruel magister.<p>

Hawke was feeling a bit edgy, what with Fenris being decidedly moodier than usual, but he supposed that was to be expected. Being kidnapped and nearly dragged to the one place in Thedas possibly worse than the Void itself was not a usual occurrence, even for them. Hawke just hoped his stupid, selfish impulse hadn't contributed to these nasty shifts in temper, but he probably wasn't that damned lucky.

At the moment, he was stretched out along their comfortably worn settee, reading Varric's latest serial in the light of a crackling fire. Winter had come in especially bitter this year, though nothing so snowy and miserable as a good old Fereldan blizzard, but other than the frosty elf brooding in his bedroom, their home was quite cosy.

When he heard footsteps crossing the sitting room— that familiar, determined stride— he kept his eyes firmly on the pages in front of him. When Fenris stopped beside the sofa, standing silently down by his feet, Hawke waited.

"Callum." There were any number of things Hawke expected Fenris to say (_I'm leaving_ being frighteningly high on that list). His name, simply his given name, hadn't even made the top hundred. "May we speak?"

"Yes—" He scrambled, tossing the book aside and swinging his legs off the sofa. "Yes, of course."

Fenris was frowning, but not scowling, and there was as world of difference between the two. He crossed his arms, making no move to sit in the spot Hawke had vacated, and it harkened back to all those times Callum (before he'd been Hawke and almost exclusively Hawke, in this City of Chains) had done something mischievous or otherwise ill-disciplined, making his father look at him with nearly the exact same frustrated expression. It was… awkward, to say the least.

Right before Hawke would've said something flip, something about how _speaking _usually involved less heavy, unbroken silence, Fenris began.

"You are an exceptionally dishonest man." That… that was true, but it still hurt. "You make your living with lies and subterfuge, and you're inarguably skilled at it. It's idiotic that I trust you."

It's… oh.

Keeping a leash on the beaming grin that was threatening to burst forth, Hawke scratched the back of his head. "Well, aren't you lucky Varric doesn't keep you on for your good sense, hm?"

"And you're forever making light of everything," Fenris continued, gaining momentum, but Hawke didn't mind. He was _trusted_, by the most guarded man he'd ever met. "It's absolutely maddening, enough that I've come so close to choking you to death on almost a daily basis, it's a wonder either of lasted a week living in this place together. You're overconfident, presumptuous, and vain, and when you smile _like that_—" He pointed accusingly, and Hawke realised that joy and amusement had both ganged up to sneak onto his face, quirking his lips. "I'm driven to distraction. This is insanity."

"You know, I'm not at all sorry you feel that way." In for a silver, in for a sovereign; Hawke allowed his smile to broaden until it crinkled the corners of his eyes, shifting all the nervousness out of his posture. "You're a crabby son of a bitch, but I still adore you, so you've certainly not got a monopoly on crazy in this house, love."

Finally dropping to sit at the other end of the settee, Fenris lowered his head into his hands, muttering to himself. If it were anyone else, Hawke would have swooped down with a flurry of hands and kisses, set on making up for months of wretched wanking.

If it were anyone else, he wouldn't have been in this blighted state to begin with.

"All right," Fenris said eventually, once he'd finished insulting Hawke's ancestry all the way back to the Divine Age, or reciting his favourite epic dwarven saga, or whatever he'd been grumbling about in Arcanum. "Just… just sit there. Don't move, and don't touch me."

That sounded suspiciously like the talk Varric had been forced to give to the rest of his mercenaries, after Fenris' first attempts at teamwork had ended with broken bones. _No sudden moves, absolutely no touching, and for the Maker's sake, don't **stare**._

Instead of delving down that route, Hawke simply nodded ever so slightly. "As you say. I am entirely at your disposal." Fenris looked surprised by the sincerity, but not necessarily disbelieving; that was certainly a step in the right direction. He stood, shuffling over to loom somewhat uneasily, and the irrationally optimistic part of Hawke's mind began to cheer raucously.

Then Fenris reached out, and callused fingers pressed against Hawke's jaw, simply resting there. A thumb brushing slowly through the scruffy stubble he'd been neglecting made him shiver, and his hand clenched hard against the arm of the settee. He'd hidden in a very tiny, very uncomfortable wardrobe for almost ten hours once, waiting for the right opportunity to slip a garrotte around a nobleman's neck, but keeping still _at this moment_was infinitely more difficult.

It didn't get any easier when Fenris bent down, slanting that sinfully lovely mouth over Hawke's own. Surely the order of _don't move_didn't include his lips, or his tongue— it was a risk he'd take, regardless. Sitting there like a corpse while Fenris kissed him, slow and a bit tentative, was not something Hawke would bear.

As it turned out, that gamble was a smart bet. One lick across Fenris' lower lip earned him a groan, two got him access to that hot, sweet mouth, and before you could say _oh yes please, Maker_, Hawke had a lapful of eager elf. Hands were tangled in his hair, pulling his head back to grant Fenris' better access, and slim, strong legs were clamped like a vice on either side of his hips, pinning him in place. In the span of a few fluttering heartbeats, tentative had shifted to almost frantic, brilliantly enthusiastic if a little inexpert, and Hawke was digging trenches in the upholstery trying to keep his hands to himself.

_He's kissing you like a naughty chantry virgin who's just snuck out of vespers. Go gently, you great pervy lout._

And so Hawke weathered this ardent storm with as much care and grace as he could muster, and given the fact that he'd been kept on a knife-edge of constantly thwarted arousal for bloody months, it was rather amazing he mustered as much as he did. He met fiercely keen kisses with tenderness, letting languorous slides of his tongue and softly murmured endearments cool the frenzy but not the passion, until Fenris' fingers eased their death-grip on his scalp and the tension began to bleed from the elf's bearing.

Eventually, after what could have been hours, hands were carding through his hair, blunt nails scratching lightly as Fenris drank him in like the finest wine, and Hawke made no attempts to quiet his moans. Having a demanding bundle of lust writhing around in his lap had some significant appeal (appeal that would be thoroughly investigated later, Maker willing), but this leisurely, sensual exploration was more in line with what the current situation called for.

Still, his grip on the settee was painfully tight, clenching with every shift of Fenris' hips. It was well into the evening, and both of them were all but dressed for bed in well-worn linen and cotton, but even without layers of armour, none of it was _enough_. Not the occasional press of weight against Hawke's neglected erection, or the feel of an answering hardness, deliciously thick and warm and stuttering against his belly. He wanted— _needed_— to grab hold of those teasing hips and pull them down, making Fenris gasp and start grinding in earnest.

"Fenris—" He drew back just enough to catch his breath, and was rewarded with lips and teeth blazing a trail over to the side of his throat, staking a claim there with wet, open-mouthed kisses and making his pulse skip. "Maker, please… please let me _touch_."

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Fenris grew very still, and Hawke swallowed back a curse.

"No, never mind—" He began back-peddling quickly, daring to nuzzle against the tanned cheek so close to his face. "Forget I said anything, and let's go back to the kissing. The kissing is grand, and I—"

"I'm being foolish." Fenris' voice was an angry rasp, but he didn't move away, his words ghosting across the damp skin he'd left under Hawke's ear. "I trust you, more than anyone I've ever known. I want to do this. I want to be with you."

There was a faint quiver in Fenris' muscles, barely noticeable, but it made Hawke's heart ache. They'd discussed his markings before, the pain of them and the memories, but this was more than that (something that made him consider paying Merrill a visit, to see if the peculiar little elf might be willing to raise a very specific, very waterlogged corpse. Some people deserved to die twice).

This fear was something Hawke knew he could not fathom, not truly, but he thought he might have an answer for the moment. Stopping now wasn't really an option, unless Fenris called a halt— to offer otherwise would do nothing but insult him.

Fenris was not a man who would abide coddling, especially when feeling vulnerable.

"Would it help," he said softly, rubbing his nose along the line of Fenris' jaw and forcing a smile into his words for both their sakes. "If I said I wanted you to fuck me through the mattress, however you please? Or you could tie me up, then fuck me through the mattress. Or lash my hands together and fuck me over the desk. I'm not terribly picky."

"You—" Now Fenris leaned back, but it wasn't to flee in disgust. He was staring, wide-eyed and flushed, but he wasn't running. "You would… wish to be taken? You want me to _bind_you, and…"

"Binding is completely optional." The thread of interest curling through Fenris' tone made Hawke's smile grow just a little lewd. "But oh Maker, yes, I wish to be taken. Thoroughly. Often, if you like it. At least twice tonight if you can manage it. I will warn you of one thing, though." Hawke would have bitten his tongue ages ago, if his spiral into wantonness hadn't been putting a very promising heat into those glittering green eyes, banked behind the lingering astonishment. "I've been dreaming of having your cock up my arse, and they are always exceptionally good dreams. Certain expectations have been set."

For one brief, terrifying moment, Hawke worried he'd gone a step too far. Fenris was pulling away entirely, standing and leaving Hawke possibly colder and more desolate than he'd ever felt in his life, but then a very insistent hand bunched in the front of his shirt, yanking him to his feet as well.

"Tell me of these expectations," Fenris murmured, and Hawke was faced with the choice of following where he was being led, or having his shirt ripped off. The sizable tent in Fenris' trousers made that decision a fairly simple one.

"Oh, I think that would be cheating," he replied, scrambling like an overzealous mabari pup after its master. They were headed towards Hawke's bedroom, the bedroom with the larger bed, upon which there was a mattress. Hawke was operating under the assumption that Fenris might just be willing to do filthy, glorious things to him on that mattress. "Show me what you've got, instead. I'll keep a scorecard, mark you out of one hundr—"

He was pulled again, hard and down, and the crush of a fierce, demanding mouth stole his breath, possibly trying to steal his _soul_, which was silly, since he'd gladly give all of that to Fenris if he simply asked. His hands twitched, still locked firmly by his sides, and they both stumbled the last few steps into his bedroom.

"Full marks," he gasped when Fernis let him breathe again. "Keep up the good work—" The hand on his chest pushed (just pushed, not phased, so he was still doing all right), and Hawke pin-wheeled back, landing on the bed with a grunt.

The quilts were much more forgiving than the settee had been, and the moment his mind caught up with his new position Hawke clawed his hands into the soft fabric. Fenris' grip on his thighs kept him from scooting farther back, and Hawke arched up like a drawn bow when a knee pressed between his legs.

"Fuck, _Maker_—" Warm, rough hands slid up his ribs, pushing his shirt up to bunch under his arms, and Fernis' tongue licked a path of lightning up the centre of his chest. "I— yes, _yes, fuck_—"

"It's rather remarkable," Fenris said, lapping at one quickly pebbling nipple while lightly pinching the other. Hawke still couldn't quite seem to get enough air, but what a way to die. "That you can't stop yammering even now."

There was something so very fond lurking behind that jab, and Hawke didn't stop the delighted laughter that bubbled out of his throat. "Sorry love—" The endearment made Fenris bite down hard enough to leave a mark, but it seemed much more possessive than discouraging. "You'll have… have to do better than this… to shut me up."

Fenris, significantly less verbose than Hawke even when they weren't breathless and huffing and coiled around each other like snakes, rumbled with a very promising sort of growl. That sound alone would have been thrilling, but suddenly there was a hand down the front of Hawke's trousers, grabbing hold of the very interested erection trapped within, and he was moments away from tearing the coverlet to ribbons.

Fenris crawled up farther, stretching his lithe body all along Hawke's and snatching brief kisses while Hawke panted and whined. A hand-job while still in his trousers shouldn't have been so damned good, but Fenris was watching him through hooded eyes, rolling his own hardness against Hawke's hip—

He fought to centre himself, unwilling to unravel just yet. "Getting there…" Tilting his head to nip at Fenris' chin, he called up a cheeky smirk that was only a little strained. "But too many clothes."

Which was the last thing he managed to say before Fenris all but tore the trousers off him.

Letting himself be manhandled was no issue at all; Hawke squirmed and wriggled like an eel to help get himself naked, then slid up towards the pillows to sprawl more comfortably across the bed. He could feel his mouth begin to water when Fenris finally decided to follow suit, stripping down to reveal the beautiful planes of his chest (which Hawke was now permitted to ogle to his heart's content), and then— oh blessed Andraste— _everything else_.

He was blatantly staring, and maybe it was a little rude, but a cock like that deserved some extensive consideration. And then extensive licking.

"Right," he rasped, letting his gaze rake over the remarkable figure of the elf who was half standing, half kneeling on the foot of his bed. It was risky to peel one hand free of the tangle of quilts, but he did it anyway, pointing. "I want that. Please."

"Callum, wait." Hawke felt a cold stone settle in his gut, instantly sobered by the hesitant crack in Fenris' voice. He glanced up, and was faced with a wide-eyed lover who had plummeted from horny and even somewhat playful to utterly cast adrift. "I don't… What you're asking… I'm not certain I know how to do this." Fenris swallowed hard enough that Hawke could see his throat contract. "Not without hurting you."

"I'll show you." Stamping down his fury— his anger certainly wasn't directed at Fenris, and it had no place in their bedroom— Hawke leaned over and pulled open the drawer of his beside table, rummaging for his trusty jar of slick. Palming the precious salve, he turned back and patted the blankets encouragingly. "Will you come up here and kiss me?"

Still looking rather unsure, Fenris moved forward, crawling up across the mattress until their lips met again, gentle and grounding. Hawke wanted to work out every ounce of tension and worry that had the poor man tied up in such knots, but settled for pressing the jar into his hand instead, letting their fingers brush briefly.

"Fenris," he said between kisses, hips shifting impatiently. "How do you want me? On my knees? My back?" Fenris hummed, reddening Hawke's bottom lip with his teeth before pulling away slightly. The fringe of his hair, irresistibly soft and a bit damp from sweat, brushed against Hawke's forehead like silk.

"I would see your face." His voice was quiet, a little gruff, and even through the flush of arousal, Hawke felt his own cheeks heat. Maker, what this elf could do to him.

"Open the jar, love," he said, instead of whatever nonsense his thudding heart was about to dredge up. "And move so I can lift my legs. We'll work on getting me relaxed for you."

There was a bit of shifting around, and then Fenris was kneeling between his bent knees, petting his thighs in a way that was both splendidly tender, and excruciatingly teasing. That was one request down— the moving part— and one to go, but Fenris didn't seem in any great hurry to get the slick open.

Then he leaned forward, letting a warm puff of breath ghost over Hawke's throbbing erection, and suddenly Hawke had absolutely no desire to rush him into the preparation stage of their evening. This had all the makings of a brilliant little side trip.

At the first touch of that tongue against his hard-on, Hawke bit the inside of his cheek hard enough that he tasted blood. There was a mouth closing over him, sliding down with cheeks hollowing, and pressure and suction, and— _oh_, this was what months of frustration and unsatisfying masturbation could do to an otherwise perfectly healthy and formerly very sexually proficient man. This was not the brilliant plan it had seemed. He was going to come. Holy Maker, Fenris had barely touched him, and he was going to come. That would be too embarrassing for words.

Ignoring the surprised grunt such a quick move elicited, he darted one hand down and squeezed tightly around the base of his cock, inhaling slow and deep. He teetered, pushing back against the edge of that precipice as Fenris drew back. He was fine, totally in control of himself.

Then he heard Fenris' chuckle, maybe a little darkly, and a glance confirmed that yes, the elf was smirking at him. Poised over his split-slicked prick, with that gorgeous mouth all moist and hot and willing… this was so wholly unfair.

"Later," he wheezed, squeezing himself tighter. "Blighted _flames_, later I will take you up on that. Enthusiastically."

"As you wish," Fenris replied, still smirking, but before Hawke could feel even a flicker of relief or disappointment (at this point, probably both), that same wicked tongue was laving at his balls.

How in the Maker's name had they gone from almost timid _I don't want to hurt you_, to tonguing his balls?

"G-going to come—" He arched up, gasping. Fenris' hand was unexpectedly firm around his, and what had been a restraint was now a steady, pumping grip. "_Bastard_—"

It wasn't the most romantic thing he'd ever called a lover the instant before a first orgasm, but it was sincere. Climax hit him like a maul, silencing the rest of the world save for the noises of pounding of blood in his ears and the smug _bastard_of an elf, slurping and sucking between his legs. Everything went tight, bright, then snapped in one great rush, and he was shuddering his release all over their clasped hands and his own stomach.

"Bastard," he said again sometime later, batting weakly at Fenris' head as the torture of licks and nuzzles continued, making his oversensitive cock twitch painfully. "What was… you… _ugh._"

"Relaxing you," came the all too self-satisfied rumble of an answer, spoken into the juncture between his groin and his thigh, and Hawke tried to be annoyed. It was difficult with his bones turned to jelly and his brains leaking out his ears, but he tried.

Then Fenris was pushing on the backs of his thighs, and that wicked, bastardly, _glorious_ tongue was fluttering over the pucker of his arse, and Hawke may have whimpered. A little.

The sound made Fenris stop and look up at him with poorly hidden apprehension, which was the exact opposite of what Hawke wanted. "Is this all right?"

"Maker, Fenris, _yes_—" If his choice was either maintaining some measure of dignity during these proceedings, or getting a rimming, Hawke was just about at the point where he'd be willing to drop trou in the middle of chantry services and beg for it. Of all the things he'd expected from his darling little cock-tease, this was better. "Yes, yes, yes, yes— _fuck_—"

This was one of his very favourite things, and he hadn't even imagined Fenris would be up for it (not yet, at least; Hawke had enjoyed many fantasies of introducing the elf to such debauchery). Apparently mollified by such an enthusiastic response, Fenris got back to work, spreading Hawke wider with his thumbs as he began gently licking and probing. Hawke knew he was babbling— breathless curses and endearments, and probably some other horrifically humiliating rubbish— but he didn't have a single thought left to spare on trying to shut up. His nerves were singing, jolts of pleasure sizzling from his arse to his cock, up and down his spine, even into the tips of his fingers and toes.

It may have been a while since he'd had the pleasure of company, paid or otherwise, but that didn't mean Hawke had been neglecting his bum. He could've done with quite a cursory kind of preparation, but he'd had a plan. Sometime after having his nipples played with, but before he'd been speared on a questing tongue, it had seemed like a good idea to let Fenris stretch and scissor and ply him with an unnecessary amount of lubrication if that's what the elf wanted (because their first time wouldn't have an ounce of pain, to show that such a thing could be done). Those good intentions were unravelling swiftly.

Fenris, bless him, was working his tongue ever so slowly and carefully, with only the occasional press of one long finger, testing, just slipping past the loosening ring of muscle. Hawke was very ready for more. So, _so_ready.

That was a sentiment he would have shared, if only he could've found a few more words— something other than _Fenris_, _yes_, and some guttural sound in the vicinity of _ngh_. He couldn't touch, couldn't grab and roll Fenris over and sink down onto the length of him. It was a thousand times harder like this than it would have been if Fenris had truly bound him, but Hawke managed to hold on to a sliver of self-control.

Finally— _finally_— Fenris inched that one finger inside, still lapping like a cat with cream, and Hawke felt his toes curl. At some point the jar must have been opened, and the familiar, slippery sensation of cool salve was incredibly welcome.

"Yes," he hissed, pressing down against the intruding digit. "Fenris, more. Please, Maker, _please_ more—" When his begging got him nothing beyond a second finger prodding lightly without actually entering yet, Hawke took a moment to gather the shreds of his wits together. If he didn't get fucked _immediately_, he was going to die.

Grabbing one of the pillows near his shoulder, Hawke shoved it down under his hips without any warning; Fenris jerked back, startled, and his finger crooked. More than likely, it was an accidental move, but the sudden press against that fantastic little bundle of nerves made Hawke mewl like a kitten, thrusting up into empty air.

"What—" Fenris began to say, until the weight of a pair of legs slinging over his shoulders made him growl, his markings flaring ever so slightly.

Hawke barely noticed, canting his hips in a way he dimly hoped was inviting as well as shamefully desperate. "Fuck me, fuck me now, please Fenris, _now_…" Digging his heels into the hard muscles of Fenris' back was technically touching, but there were no immediate objections (discounting the growl, but really, from Fenris that was practically _hello_). Forcing himself to focus, even as the withdrawal of that lovely finger made his eyes want to cross, Hawke met Fenris' gaze as earnestly as he was able. "I'm ready, love," he murmured, more than a little impressed at the way his voice only quavered slightly. "Won't hurt, trust me. Maker, trust me."

Glancing almost suspiciously between Hawke's face and his arse, Fenris still leaned forward, obviously very turned on himself— the adorable flush and the rock-hard erection gave him away, even if he wasn't a babbling fool like Hawke. "You're certain?"

Amazingly, it sounded like a serious question. Swallowing back some laughter, possibly a sob, Hawke waited a moment for Fenris to settle over him comfortably before lifting himself up on his forearms, letting a deep, demanding kiss answer for him. Tastes of salt, musk, and Fenris assaulted him, drawing an utterly whorish moan from low in his throat—

Then he felt the steady press of a cock head, slick and wide and _exactly_ where he needed it.

What Fenris may have lacked in experience and fancy manoeuvres, he more than made up for with passion and determination. If Hawke had truly been keeping a scorecard, it would have caught fire.

He felt every inch, stretching and filling him, and it was all so achingly gradual he could've screamed. Fenris was sweating, obviously straining with his jaw clenched and the tendons in his neck draw in tight cords, but he wasn't baulking. Hawke, to his credit, managed not to grab him by the hips and drive him in the rest of the way.

Fenris began muttering something, rough and barely audible as he closed the last bit of distance, and the sound of it made Hawke shiver even without understanding the words. Varric was right— he was a dangerously, hopelessly romantic moron— but Maker, this felt nearly sacred.

"Oh," he breathed, pushing limp hair back from his forehead as he tried valiantly not to grind onto the cock filling him up entirely. "I… oh, you feel so good. So good, Fenris." A stuttering, unexpected thrust made him curse, his own hips snapping into the sensation, and Fenris bowed his head, panting harshly. "Fuck, _yes_, more—"

After what felt like ages of cautious if fantastic foreplay, he'd expected (feared) having to beg and cajole before Fenris would start pounding into him in earnest. Luckily, it seemed the elf had some limits to his restraint. The fact that those limits were buried somewhere balls deep inside Hawke… well, that was very good news.

That plea for _more_was nearly lost in a moan, as Fenris began to move in a steady, measured tempo. That lasted all of three thrusts, until the smallest brush in just the right spot made Hawke clench; steady and measured faltered, before evaporating into hard, frenzied fucking.

About bloody time, too.

The angle wasn't perfect, and he was getting a bit of a cramp from having his knees shoved up by his shoulders for so long, but Hawke was in paradise. Fenris was so strong, so raw and fervent in every pump of his hips, in the snarling bites and clumsy kisses he was pressing against Hawke's chest and neck… this felt like possession, like claiming, and Hawke revelled in it. The bed frame creaked, not quite ominously but rhythmically, and the world narrowed to just the two of them, to the slap of skin on skin, the cacophony of grunts and groans, and the crack of the headboard against the wall thudding like a heartbeat.

Then Fenris' hand found his, prying whitened fingers away from the sheets to lace them with his own. It was a simple thing, their joined hands pressed together against the mattress, but the intimacy of it in the midst of this fervour nearly undid him.

Of course, Fenris had two hands, and when the other closed around Hawke's straining prick, squeezing and stroking in time with his pistoning hips, there was no _nearly_.

Hawke inhaled sharply, eyes stinging with sweat as the first wave of orgasm crested over him, and all the pleasure in his body contracted into a small, glimmering point. When he clenched again, this time completely involuntarily, Fenris roared into the crook of his neck and tumbled after his own release, sending sparks up Hawke's spine with every short, erratic thrust.

Oh, they were a mess— chests heaving like bellows in a tangle of loose, tacky limbs— but Fenris was still holding his hand, the grip gentler now. It was a magnificent mess.

When Fernis rolled off, flopping down on the quilts, every one of Hawke's muscles twinged in protest, and he managed not to grimace. He was aching and sore, deliciously so, but he didn't quite have enough powers of speech to explain that nuance to Fenris.

"Stay," he managed to say, lolling his head over to offer a sleepy smile. Fenris looked like a wet dream made flesh, and he didn't protest when Hawke shifted a bit closer, nuzzling their joined hands. "Please, stay."

It wasn't the most certain nod he got in response, but it was a nod nonetheless.

* * *

><p>Waking up cold and grimy was hardly a new experience, but it was never an especially pleasant one. This particular instance came complete with a naked elf trying to sneak out of his bed, which was great for the naked part, but not so much the sneaking.<p>

"Fenris?" At the sound of his hoarse murmur, his lover (there was a small flutter in his stomach at that thought, not that he'd admit it aloud) froze, one foot on the floor. He could have been going to clean up, or even just trying to get under the covers, but the tense line of his shoulders made Hawke uneasy. "What's wrong, love?"

Lyrium and snowy hair looked ethereal in the moonlight streaming in through the windows, and if it weren't for the warning bells pealing in his mind, Hawke would have been entranced.

"I don't know," Fenris answered quietly, making no move to turn or to flee. "I think… I had dreams. Dreams of my past, before the markings."

Sitting up, Hawke almost reached out, but reconsidered at the last moment. Something was very wrong. "Were they dreams, or memories?"

There was a long pause, then Fenris' head tilted slightly, giving Hawke a view of his profile, partially obscured behind the shadow of his hair. "It felt real, before it slipped away. I can't be sure. I can't…" Trailing off, Fenris seemed to sag, curling inward. "I cannot do this."

Cold and grimy was bad, but Hawke would have preferred cold, grimy and bleeding in a ditch to ever hearing those words. "What do you mean?" he croaked, knowing full well but unwilling to believe it could be over so soon. "Fenris, please—"

"I'm sorry." Andraste's grace, he was going to leave, and not just back to his own room. Hawke heard too much sorrow in that tone, and the pain of it made sickness roll in his gut even as the panic tore through him.

In possibly one of the stupidest moves of his entire life, Hawke reached out and grabbed Fenris by the elbow as he started to make his escape, yanking him hard back onto the bed. The flare of lyrium was shockingly bright in the dark room, and Hawke half-braced for the agony of a fist through his ribs, but when instantaneous death didn't materialise, he threw all of his weight onto the elf's body, pinning him in place.

"Don't run," he said quickly, staring down into an expression that was still more shocked than outraged, but barely. "Please, just listen— just let me say something before you storm out of here."

The eerie blue light didn't fade, and Fenris was dangerously silent, but that also meant he hadn't refused. Daring a bit more (how much worse could it get, really? He'd just tackled and straddled this prickly, deeply troubled man without permission), Hawke reached down and slid his fingers over the fist Fenris had balled up at his side. The grip didn't relax, but it also didn't jerk away.

"Don't run," he said again, meeting the piercing weight of a quasi-glare without flinching. "I can't make you stay; I wouldn't dare try. Your memories… I can only imagine how confused and terrified I'd be in your place, and I swear on Andraste's pyre I won't push, but I am here for you. Whether you're my friend or my lover, I care about you, and I don't want you to go." When Fenris didn't respond, barely blinking, Hawke floundered.

He had one more card to play, but it was a damned risky gamble. As a general rule, anyone hired to kill for a living, assassin or otherwise, had exceptional skill at weighing odds, had the Maker's own luck, or got very dead, very quickly. Hawke liked to think he had a decent amount of the first, and at least some of the second.

This one phrase could foreseeably get him an uncomfortable dose of the third, or a distinct lack of Fenris in his life. Neither was a particularly agreeable option.

"Fenris," he said softly, squeezing the knot of fist still held in his hand. "Would you let those magisters reach beyond the Veil and take this happiness from you too?"

He watched, more than slightly apprehensive, as Fenris' eyes narrowed. There was no furious explosion at the very gall he'd had to say such a thing, not immediately anyway, but it felt a little like staring into a thunderhead the moment before a storm broke.

"Hawke—" Not Callum anymore, it seemed. Bethany had always been afraid of thunderstorms, even after she learned to cast lightning, and Hawke was beginning to understand why. "I do not care to be manipulated."

"And I don't care to be a one time fuck because you're a coward," someone snapped back, quite sharply. It couldn't have been Hawke speaking, though— he hadn't had a truly serious head wound in months, and what other reason could there be for such _utter madness?_

Whoever had said it, apparently Hawke was going to get the blame. The world shifted dramatically as Fenris reversed their positions, violent with temper. Having the wind knocked out of him and an unforgiving claw of a hand pressing against his throat was hardly how he'd wanted to be breathless in bed that night. His vision swam with sparks of light, dancing like fireflies around the glowing, glowering elf looming over him— if he wasn't so terribly close to being suffocated, it might have looked quite festive.

"_You,_" Fenris snarled, his thumb biting into muscle and tendon, feeling nearly as sharp as a shiv. Romantic fool or no, Hawke's mind was already buzzing with a dozen ways he could get out of this hold, before lack of air made it impossible. "You think— You—" Spitting out some no doubt fierce invectives in Arcanum, Fenris released his grip as suddenly as he'd lashed out, sitting up and knotting his fists in his hair. He was still perched on Hawke's hips, glaring up at the shadowed ceiling, and made no attempts to move any farther.

Hawke rubbed his throat, wincing. There was a bit of healing potion left from the bottles he'd bought for Fenris, and he'd be sure to slug a mouthful back before showing his face in the Hanged Man, to clear up the hand-shaped bruises that would likely form. One way or another (whether with genuine concern, or some quip about being kinky), Hawke knew Varric wouldn't keep his mouth shut if he saw.

After a long silence, during which the radiance of lyrium slowly began to fade, Hawke reached up and laid his hands gently on dimly gleaming thighs. Fenris jumped, eyes snapping down in unconcealed surprise. Very gently, Hawke slid his palms over the warm skin, textured with dips and ridges of scars.

"I care about _you_," he said calmly, as if they hadn't just come so close to real carnage. "Please stay."

"Fine." That one word, barely more than a breath, hung heavily between them. It wasn't nearly as loud as Hawke's heart pounding in his chest, but it was infinitely more important. "I… fine. I will not leave."

The brush of callused fingers against his wrists was thrilling for an instant, until they lifted his hands away and pressed them back onto the mattress. Regardless, the _not leaving_part was enough of a relief to make up for the no touching, no matter how much he itched to do so.

Later, once the dust had settled and he was less terrified to say the wrong thing, Hawke would nudge and coax and sweet-talk until he had Fenris begging for his touch.

He smiled, possibly a tiny bit giddy. "Thank you, love."

Fenris shifted, climbing out of bed, and Hawke forced himself to remain calm. That subdued agreement to stay had been as good as an oath, at least for now, even if Fenris wouldn't look at him. "Go back to sleep."

It wasn't the reassuring murmur of someone just headed out to tend the fire, or anything similar. Fenris wouldn't run, but that didn't mean he was about to bare his soul, sobbing into Hawke's shoulder. Hawke nodded and stayed where he was, watching his lover (still his lover, until Fenris told him otherwise) pick up his leggings from the foot of the bed and slip out of the dark room, the door clicking shut behind him.

After waiting a few moments on the off-chance Fenris might come right back, Hawke swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. There was some cool water in the pitcher on his washstand, and he padded over to clean up a bit, moving gingerly. He felt… very well fucked, which was lovely, but it hardly made up for the cold, aching discomfort of being alone again. The smell of sex and Fenris still hanging thick in the air was more a torment than a comfort, and his bed had never looked so vast and uninviting.

Once he'd scrubbed himself, shivering in gooseflesh, he shook out the mess of bedclothes before crawling underneath. The jar of slick was tucked into the folds of the quilts, the lid just askew enough to leak a small wet patch, and Hawke secured it tightly before putting it away and settling back against his pillows. There was one pillow in particular that smelled of faintly of iron, leather, and spice, and Hawke hugged it against his chest like a child's toy.

Fenris wasn't leaving, wasn't leaving home or leaving Kirkwall or leaving _him_, and that was something. For the moment, that was something.

Eventually he allowed himself to drift into the embrace of the Fade, his sleep restless but thankfully dreamless. At this point, he would take small blessings wherever he found them.

Larger, somewhat confusing blessings were fine too, even if they gave him a headache. He certainly didn't think to complain when Fenris stumbled back into the bedroom just before dawn, reeking of liquor, and all but collapsed onto bed beside him.

He didn't think to complain, and also didn't move a single muscle as that lax, drunken, half-dressed body burrowed under the quilts, curling around his back like a cat looking for warmth. Lips pressed hard against his nape, making Hawke swallow thickly, but nothing else was forthcoming. He had a rat-arsed barnacle clinging to him, breathing hot against his neck and nearly making his eyes water with the stink of alcohol, and no real idea what one was meant to do in such a situation.

So he just went with it, letting himself be cuddled, and they'd sort the rest out in the morning… or perhaps the afternoon, depending on Fenris' hangover. The return of sobriety would very likely bring more tension with it— if he thought one good bender would be enough to settle all of Fenris' many issues, he'd have drowned the elf in liquor months before. For now, however, he would take whatever was offered and give whatever was required, freely and gladly (possibly freely and with intense frustration, if the return of sobriety brought the return of celibacy with it, but Hawke refused to dwell on such a ghastly possibility).

He'd been frighteningly sincere when he told Fenris that he would be there for him, as a friend or a lover. It might have been a sickening kind of revelation if he wasn't already head over fucking heels.

Life was never certain, which was a truth Hawke knew very well. It was chaotic and messy, dangerous, and invariably deadly one way or another. Life with Fenris simply made the chaos and the danger more apparent, which was not what any relatively sane man— or any assassin, specifically— should have ever wanted. It was a distraction, and an exploitable weakness, and Hawke didn't give a shit.

The comforting weight of Fenris' arm around him, and the strong, slender hand splayed out across his chest… that was worth it. The rare rumble of his laugh and the quirk of his beautiful lips were worth it, especially when the open amusement was Hawke's doing. The sound of his rich, gravelly voice, warm with affection and strained rough with pleasure, was definitely worth it.

And apparently there was something about him that Fenris considered worth sticking around for, as well. Despite everything else, that thought made Hawke grin like a lunatic, grateful for the dark and the slow, steady breathing that indicated Fenris had fallen asleep (or maybe passed out; Maker, he smelled as though he'd been trapped inside a giant cask of wine and had to drink his way free).

Neither of them was a dashing hero, and this whole romance thing was getting more convoluted than anything Varric (even in his strangest moods) had ever put to paper, but everything was going to work out. They'd simply have to take things one day at a time, and try not to kill each other. It had been a solid plan so far.

And hey, if at least some of those days ended in mind-blowing sex with a certain scandalously handsome elf, that would be good too.

END


End file.
